Prove It
by IlluminatedShadow
Summary: Canada's patient, but even he has his limits. He's had enough and he's serious. But America won't stop humping him. This might not end well. America/Canada


Because every time I try to update "Not Children Anymore" another plot bunny comes and gnaws on my soul. -headdesk- So here is another new child borne out of my obsession with America and Canada. I could continue this, I could also let it die. What will I do? No idea... -wanders off-

Warnings: Language, sexual situations, OOCness, twincest/incest/slash, fail

Pairing: America/Canada, mentions of America/other nations, mentions of Canada/other nations (Canada does too get laid and he makes sure its **his** name they're screaming XD)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

Canada prided himself on being a patient individual. For decades he put up with forgetful family members and friends, unruly provinces, insults directed at his people, insults about his military and generally almost being forgotten on an almost global scale.

He had put up with America, as not only a brother, but also a neighbor. He deserved a goddamn medal in his opinion.

_Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. _

The springs of his mattress groaned under the combined weight of both nations.

Canada scowled, violet eyes trained resolutely on his ceiling, trying to ignore the other nation wrapped around him.

The other nation, oblivious to his bed partner's irritation, continued to slowly move against the other's side, clothed pelvis firmly prodding his hip, massaging small circles against Canada's plaid pajama pants. Slightly chapped lips pressed wetly against the curve of his shoulder and teeth nipped at the pale skin.

Canada knew he'd wake up to find a hickey there in the morning. A big, glaring, scarlet reminder of his inability to get the other nation to _leave him alone._

"Get off." Canada snapped, trying to pull away from the clingingly man who merely tightened his grip and continued to thrust against him. "And stop humping me."

But America didn't stop any of his ministrations. In fact, Canada could feel a warm hand glide down his stomach and fiddle with the waistband of his pants. He could feel the rest of his patience slipping away.

And Canada really hated America right now.

The mattress continued to squeak mockingly.

Canada's scowl deepened. He was also definitely replacing his mattress.

"America."

With a loud smack, the other blond pulled away from the other's neck and trained bright blue eyes on his northern neighbor. "Yeah, bro?"

Canada blanched. He really wished America wouldn't call him that whenever they were messing around. But he suspected that the elder blond had some sort of a brother complex (not that that was surprising, what with the plethora of other complexes America had managed to pick during his few centuries of existence).

But America and his issues could be tackled later.

"I'm really not in the mood." America stared at him blankly, hips pressed against Canada's hip. Then his expression was overtaken by a mischievous grin and with a cheerful laugh, the other nation pulled himself up and over so that he was looming over Canada, hands on either side of the other's head and knees planted firmly on either side of the other's body. With twinkling eyes, America leaned down and kissed the other blond's lips gently.

"You're just playing hard to get, aren't you?" America brushed back stray golden strands of hair away from the other's face, playfully tweaking the one errant curl that bounced between Canada's eyes and grinned when a rosy tint flitted across the prone nation's cheeks.

"No, I'm not." Canada snapped. "I'm not in the mood." He glared heatedly up at the dense nation staring down at him, face marred with confusion. He turned away, not wanting to look at the other.

"Canada." America began, concern bleeding into his confident voice. "What's wrong?" A calloused hand came up to cup Canada's cheek, turning his head so that he could meet the other's gaze.

Canada hated it when America's joking façade would slip and he'd exhibit an uncharacteristic ability to read others.

America once told him that he always knew when Canada was feeling down.

Canada wanted to say, "Yet you still manage to forget me?" but he bit back the retort because America was holding him against his bare chest, palms settled comfortingly on Canada's waist and lips pressed against silken hair. Canada had felt like America loved him, that he was important to the superpower.

Looking up into tender blue eyes, Canada couldn't help but feel the same way again.

But he was tired of being patient.

"Canada?" America smiled boyishly, trying to prompt the other into confiding in him. "If something's wrong, you can tell me and I'll take care of it. I'm a hero after all." He grinned widely but when Canada merely glanced up at him with cold eyes, his smile dimmed.

"This is wrong." Canada said. America's smile faded. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"What?"

"This!" Canada exclaimed, feeling the last of his patience snap. "I don't want to do _this._"

America blinked slowly, before realization dawned on his face and he frowned. "What the hell brought this on? You didn't seem to have a problem last week, or during the conference or in the broom closet. You _enjoyed_ it." America didn't want to show it, but he was feeling rather hurt. He and Canada had something good and he knew the sex was good and he knew Canada was happy and he knew he was happy because Canada was happy.

But apparently Canada wasn't happy.

"Is it because I won't let you top me? Because I told you I can't take the entire Great White North up my—"

"It's not that!" Canada shouted, flustered. "And please don't call it that." He added, an adorable pink blush stole across his face and he looked so delicious with the moonlight streaming in and illuminating his locks and he looked absolutely ethereal and America was so distracted by the sight that he didn't hear a word of whatever Canada was saying and instead began to lean down so that he could kiss those inviting lips---

--And, promptly, the Home of the Free and Land of the Brave found himself shoved off the bed, face thumping against the plush carpet of Canada's bedroom. Before America could gather his bearings and check to see if he'd broken his nose (because he was pretty sure he heard something crack), he heard the bed creak and Canada snarl, "Go find Mexico, you bastard."

And then the door slammed, shaking the walls with the force of it.

Well, fuck. This wasn't good.

* * *

Ahahahaha, yes. Comments? Criticisms? Then please leave a review, let me know what you all think! -slinks away-


End file.
